At the Edge
by Hyarrowen
Summary: The French have a low opinion of the English climate, and with good reason; but one Frenchman at least has cause to be thankful for it. Henry V,1989 film 'verse. Henry/Montjoy, pre-slash, mild h/c.


Fic: At the Edge; Henry V/French Herald

Title: At the Edge

Fandom: Henry V, 1989 movieverse

Pairing: Henry/Montjoy

Genre: Romance, mild h/c

Word count: 3050

Summary: The French have a low opinion of the English climate, and with good reason. But one Frenchman at least has cause to be thankful for it.

x-posted; apologies to anyone seeing this twice

Disclaimer: Not mine, Shakespeare's and Renaissance Films'. Not making any money out of this. Apologies to all concerned.

Thanks as always to my beta, Fiona Pickles.

**At the Edge **

_Is not their climate foggy, raw and dull? _

- Henry V, Act III, Scene V

The sheep-track they were following hugged the base of the low cliff, so they had dark tumbled rock on one hand and short grass and heather sloping away into the mist on the other. Henry, in the lead, let his horse pick its own way among the half-worked millstones and fallen slabs, and tried not to worry about a number of things – the fact that they were lost, the fading light, how tired the horses were. He knew that they were going to be benighted on this bleak hillside, and he had to find shelter before long, but he had seen neither cottage nor barn all afternoon.

Behind him he heard a suppressed cough. Turning his head, he saw the Herald, sitting hunched on his horse, wrapped tightly in his cloak and looking pretty much at the end of his strength. The decision was made.

'As soon as I can find a good place, we'll stop for the night,' he said. 'There'll be somewhere along this edge that gives a bit of protection.' He was fairly sure that they were riding along Axe Edge, making towards Buxton, but they had not seen the sun for many hours, so he had no idea of their heading.

'Your Majesty. I can carry on,' protested the Herald, but he did not sound as though he had convinced even himself.

'I can hear water up ahead – that means there'll be a valley. Not far to go,' said Henry, ignoring Montjoy's assertion.

The Edge turned inwards, and there was a slight sense of enclosure as they moved between a V of frowning crags. Cloughs, the local people called such valleys. Slightly below, to their right, Henry could make out the shape of a sheep-pen, which would provide minimal shelter if necessary ... He had to find something better, for the Herald, child of the warm South, had coughed again.

The trickling of water got louder – surely there would be some projection or coign under which they could creep? Then he saw it, in a further turn of the dark cliffs. It could hardly be called a cave, just a tumble of fallen slabs, but under them a shadowy gap which looked big enough to take the two of them, and above was a slight overhang which would give shelter of a sort for the horses too.

'This might do,' he said. 'No, stay mounted for now. I'll take a look.'

He swung down off his horse, passing the reins to Montjoy, though the animal would hardly be likely cut loose at this point, and climbed the slight rise to – well, he had to call it a cave for want of a better word. Damp, dank, low-ceilinged and with a floor that sloped, and he was on the point of deciding to look for somewhere better, when he heard another quiet cough. No, they would have to make do.

'Bring the horses up. There's a bit of an overhang we can tether them under.' The figures loomed through the mist, and then Montjoy was dismounting close by. He looked worn out.

'Where do you want them, sire?' he asked, and Henry indicated the overhang. They had shelter, water, a little food from the saddlebags – what else did they need?

Firewood, if he could find any that was dry. Bedding. He took his sword and went to cut heather while Montjoy saw to the horses, and came back with a huge bundle; it was dewed with fog, but would be better than lying directly on the sodden ground. He put the bundle into Montjoy's arms, and indicated the nook among the boulders, and then went a little way further into the clough to pick up the bleached and twisted branches of deadwood that were scattered about under the tumbled rocks. Carried there when the stream rushed down in spate or snow-melt, no doubt.

A couple of trips more, and he had a decent heap of firewood stacked just outside the cave. Montjoy was sitting on the pile of heather, looking rather shocked at his own weakness, but the horses were tethered, unsaddled and rubbed down, and their bags were stowed just inside the cave. Henry found his flint and steel, scraped together a pile of kindling from under the overhang, and succeeded in starting the fire. Not before time, for the gently billowing fog was turning darker. Evening was upon them.

Henry fished in the saddlebags and found their food. Pasties, gingerbread biscuits, and what looked like apple dumplings.

Suddenly he felt more cheerful. They put aside half the food, and in the flicker of firelight they sat at the mouth of their refuge, its topmost slab barely clearing their heads, and shared the rest.

'I shouldn't have dragged you out so far, Montjoy; you weren't fit for a ride like this.' He had been mentally reproaching himself for a few hours now.

'The weather looked set fair. We would have had a pleasant afternoon's ride and slept in soft beds tonight.'

'No, it was my mistake, and I should have known better.'

Montjoy turned aside and coughed again, softly.

'Best turn in. I'll check on the horses. You get yourself ready.'

When he got back to the cave-mouth Montjoy was just returning from the rocks a little to one side where he had relieved himself; Henry followed suit and came back to find that Montjoy was spreading his cloak at the outer margin of the cave. He sighed, picked it up, and arranged it further inside.

'I'll be alright there. It's close to the fire,' protested Montjoy.

'And to the fog, and if the wind gets up you'll get any rain that blows in. No. I'm responsible for you while you're in England, and for bringing you here today. Go on, inside with you,' and Henry placed another branch carefully on the fire, shed his own cloak, and crawled in beside him. They twisted around, getting the cloaks wrapped around them, and the saddlebags arranged under their heads. There was a nasty draught coming in to one side where there was a chink between the big slabs of rock. Henry half-sat up again and stuffed it with a handful of heather. He pulled the hood of his cloak up, waited while Montjoy did the same, and then settled down once more.

'Are we far from Buxton, do you think?'

'It can't be more than five miles or so. We left Macclesfield Forest not long after noon. Past the Cat and Fiddle Inn early afternoon. If we'd stayed there, or gone with the retinue along the high road... But I wanted you to see the Peak country from the best vantage point.' He had wanted an hour or two in the company of the Herald, who though an enemy had somehow, in the midst of war, become almost a friend. From time to time, Henry was aware of a wish that he might become more. 'Only an hour's ride, a fine day, what could go wrong?'

'The English climate, that's what went wrong.'

The small escort which had accompanied them across the moor had waited, at Henry's behest, on the bridleway while he had gone with Montjoy over the next low ridge to a rise with wide views all round. A slight shift in the breeze, a slight cooling, and the clear air had turned to mist around them; as they followed the muffled halloos of the escort back down, they had been led astray by crags which echoed the shouts. Then, mazed by black, peaty pools, they heard the men's cries receding, who knew where in the fog. Eventually, by cautious degrees, Henry had found a way down to the Edge, which though bleak was at least solid ground. The air had grown quickly colder, and the fog denser. It had been a miserable afternoon.

But that Montjoy was still capable of making such wry remarks somehow didn't surprise Henry. He was such a quiet presence normally, but he missed nothing, and his economical comments could make Henry grin inwardly. When, after a long, tiring ride from Southampton, he had met up with the royal party as it made its way down from the North, Henry had been glad to see him, glad of his company on the last stage of the journey between Lancaster and Derby. But now Montjoy, unused to the damp climate in the west of this damp island, was suffering from his wish to have him to himself for an hour or so.

'We won't be the last to get caught out by that. Are you comfortable?'

'More than I'd expected to be... And maybe less... Where would we have stayed in Buxton?'

A distant voice sounded in Henry's memory – now lie I like a king. 'At the guesthouse at St Anne's. They get a lot of pilgrims there, come to take the waters, so they're used to visitors. Well, tomorrow night maybe.'

Montjoy said, 'I'll look forward to that,' but he seemed oddly unsure.

'Are you all right?'

'Yes, my lord.' He sounded rather brisker. 'I'm tired, that's all.'

'Go to sleep, then. I'll keep half an eye open.' Something he was used to on campaign. He had spent nights in worse places than this. And in worse company.

'Good night.'

The fire was a comforting glow just beyond the cave-mouth. He hoped the wood-smoke would not exacerbate the Herald's cough. They needed the warmth, and protection from wolves if there were any this far from Macclesfield Forest. Wolves of the two-legged variety might be about, of course, but it was a chill night, and enclosed on three sides as they were by the walls of the clough, he thought it was a chance worth taking. He peered past the fire, but could see nothing more than slow-swirling mist. There was the soft sound of horses cropping the grass, and the quiet murmur of the stream.

If it hadn't been for the rawness in Montjoy's breathing, he might almost have been content.

He woke fully a few hours later, and looked out past his feet. The fire was burning low. With an inward groan, he sat up awkwardly, feeling the roof of the cave brush his hair, and inched out into frosty air. More branches went quietly onto the fire. He straightened up, and looked eastwards. The moon was rising, floating up over the dark shapes of more hills, and it illuminated a blanket of soft white mist which had pooled in the valley.

He went to check on the horses, and untangled their tethers. When he left them, they were standing close by each other, their hooves stamping softly; but then he also heard the sound of quiet coughing. Casting one last swift glance around, he made haste back into their shelter.

'Is there anything I can do?'

'I'm quite well.'

'No, you're not. Look, this is no good.'

He rearranged his cloak, rolling onto his side so that he could pull a fold of it over Montjoy. The Herald's breathing hitched, and his body went tense, but the extra layer did its work, and he relaxed slowly. Then, very tentatively, he edged nearer to Henry. Whose heart melted utterly; he slid one hand under Montjoy's cloak and around his shoulder, urging the thin body closer yet. Montjoy turned towards him and dropped his head wearily into the warm space between Henry's neck and shoulder. His breathing slowly eased.

'Better?'

'Yes.'

'Go back to sleep.'

'Mm.'

Henry just touched the soft hair with his lips, and to his surprise the Herald shifted infinitesimally closer, then lay still again.

He had no right to be so absolutely happy.

.

Their rescuers found them like that, as a pale sun climbed above the hills Henry had seen the night before. It shone into the cramped little cave, and showed their king, his arms clasped around the enemy herald, and his cheek resting against his hair. Henry's dark cloak and Montjoy's white one were pulled so close around them that Montjoy's face was barely visible. Henry looked utterly at peace.

Exeter, who was first on the scene, heaved a sigh of mingled relief and resignation, and deliberately dislodged a stone with his foot so it rattled down the slope. 'My liege?' There was a sudden stir from within the shelter. The two horses raised their heads, and whickered softly.

Henry's voice murmured quietly for a moment, and then he scrambled out into the weak sunlight.

'Well met, uncle! How did you find us?'

He was blinking, and plainly still only half-awake, all blond stubble and rumpled hair, but very much the king.

'When your escort came in last night without you we got search parties ready to go out, from Buxton and the Cat and Fiddle. Then at dawn we met a shepherd, who said he'd seen a fire in the early hours where no fire should have been, and came up here with all haste.' There was, possibly, a note of reproach in his voice.

Henry grimaced. 'I take the chance for a half hour's ride and I've left the place in turmoil. Well, I've made my share of bad decisions in the past,' a march through France with winter coming on, for instance; a disastrous choice of bedfellow. He turned and looked back into the shelter, where his bedfellow of last night was sitting up and obviously trying to suppress more coughing. 'Sound the recall for the search parties,' he said, 'we'll take some food and then be on our way.'

One of Exeter's men stirred the fire into life and fed it more branches. Other men saw to the horses, and the long note of the recall was sounded, echoing between the dark cliffs. There were answering calls, faint but clear, across the moors above, and coming up from the valley. Jackdaws tumbled into the air from perches along the Edge, cawing protests.

Henry went back to sit next to Montjoy at the mouth of the shelter, and they shared their breakfast – the remains of last night's meal, which were still very good, and new-baked bread, still faintly warm, brought by his uncle's party, and small-ale warmed in the fire.

'Are you up to riding? They've brought a horse-litter,' he said, matter-of-factly but in an undertone.

The Herald was pale, and looked weak, but he said firmly, 'If they give me a quiet horse, I'll try riding.'

'It's only a few miles, but if you don't feel well, tell me, yes?'

'Of course.' He obviously had no intention of doing so. Henry resolved to ride behind him and keep a close eye on him.

Breakfast over, they made ready to depart. Henry cast a rather regretful look back at the gloomy clough and their little shelter, and then they picked their way down the slope to the sheep-track. He stood by to help Montjoy up onto the waiting horse. Montjoy gave him a slightly surprised look, and then placed an arm gently, deliberately, across his shoulders, and Henry boosted him into the saddle. The horse sidled slightly; Henry stood ready at his knee to hold him if necessary, but then the animal settled. Henry turned away briskly, swung up onto his own horse (not without a twinge or two – it had been a cold night on a less than adequate bed, for all its charmed place in his memory) and Exeter led the party away, along the low cliffs of Axe Edge.

.

They rode slowly down into Buxton, and went straight to the guesthouse at St Anne's Chapel. The yard was busy; another search party had just returned. The wagons of Henry's retinue were drawn up all anyhow behind the chapel. Henry gave all this pother barely a glance, and summoned the hospitaller. One of his squires came running up to help him dismount, but he said 'See to the Herald,' and when the hospitaller appeared, issued him with certain instructions. Then he led the way into the guesthouse, and shortly they were all sitting down to a rather more adequate breakfast, which looked likely to turn into a celebration. The hospitaller appeared at Montjoy's side after a few minutes though, and spoke quietly to him; Montjoy looked across the table at Henry, made a slight bow, and left in the man's company.

Some time later, leaving Exeter to direct his men about their various tasks, Henry crossed the yard once more to a low range of buildings attached to the nave of the chapel. In a small anteroom he shed his frowzy clothes, and donned an undyed linen shift; then went through the further door. Steam wreathed about him, calling to mind the mist of the previous afternoon, but this mist was warm, and had an aromatic tang to it. There was the restful lapping of water. Even the tiles of the floor were warm beneath his bare feet.

'Herald?' he said quietly.

'Aye, my lord.' There was a soft splashing. Montjoy, in a similar shift, had been leaning back, eyes closed, against the side of a round, sunken pool which took up almost the whole of the large room. He was making to get to his feet.

Henry sat on the edge of the tiles, and pressed a hand to his shoulder to keep him sitting down. 'No, stay there.' The scented steam rose from the water; there were herbs and flowers floating on the surface. Montjoy looked much less gaunt now, to Henry's relief.

'Feeling better?'

'Very much so.' He turned a smile of unfeigned contentment on Henry. 'I didn't know about the hot springs here. The hospitaller's been telling me about them. I could stay in here all day.'

Henry slid into the water next to him. 'They're not as famous as the springs at Bath, but they're more than adequate for weary travellers.' He felt the heat strike through him, soothing away the aches of the previous twenty-four hours. 'Ah, that's better.' He leaned his head back against the poolside.

A pleasant drowsiness was beginning to steal over him. He yawned, and stretched out in the hot water; then he looked round at Montjoy, who, he discovered, was looking back at him with the softness of the smile still in his eyes. Henry smiled in his turn. 'I'm a lot warmer now,' he murmured, and he was, inside and out; because he was aware that he and the Herald were at the edge of something new.


End file.
